


that talent for insatiability

by theundiagnosable



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/M, is there a limit on how much fluff is too much fluff because i think this surpasses it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or: The Doctor and Clara chalk it up to fate. au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that talent for insatiability

It takes three breakups, two apartments, and a lost job for Clara to get to Place Number One. She's feeling quite proud of herself for taking such a risk when, predictably, she arrives at the hotel to find that she's lost her single most prized possession.

"Ma'am, please," the harried clerk at the front desk says in a futile effort to calm her (Ma'am, he calls her - as if she's some batty old woman). "Where was the last place you saw it?"

Clara takes a breath and fans her face, trying to organize her thoughts. "I've only been here two days. I've gone to all the touristy spots, the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, the street with all the knockoffs- I don't know where I last saw it, I just know it's gone, I've lost it!"

"And this thing you've lost," echoes the man, as if he still doesn't quite believe her, "is... a leaf?"

From behind Clara, a concierge giggles.

New York City had seemed such a good place to start, the perfect combination of glamor and anonymity to begin her not-quite-mid-life crisis. It's the most thumbed through page in her book; Clara can remember staring, wonder struck, at the slightly blurry picture of the city skyline as a child.

She'd waited in line for _hours_ to go up the Statue of Liberty, clutching the book like a child. Even when she made it to the top, she hadn't let go of _101 Places To See_. It had felt, for a moment, like her mother was there with her. Just the latest in a series of poor judgments she's made recently. 

And now the one truly vital part of the book is gone.

The rational part of Clara can understand why the man is looking at her like she's crazy: It's a leaf. In one of the busiest cities in the world.

"Look," she says pleadingly, "this leaf is important to me. And I know, I know it sounds ridiculous but I just really need you to help me with this because it's all I have left of my mother and I-"

The clerk humours her. "I could call around to some tourist landmarks. Maybe someone's seen it?" His voice practically drips with skepticism. "We'll call your room if it turns up."

" _Slight_ problem," Clara wheedles, wishing she'd worn a lower cut shirt, or at least put on some makeup. "I don't exactly  _have_ a room anymore. I checked out this morning. I'd still appreciate the help, though-"

Evidently, her flirting skills aren't up to the clerk's standards, because as it dawns on him that he's spent the last fifteen minutes helping a woman who isn't even mentioned in his contract, Clara can see him withdrawing. "I'll do what I can," he says, which Clara interprets as, "Bugger off, crazy foreigner."

She feels her eyes well up. This has been an altogether horrible day. It's for good reason that sane people don't do things like this, running off and traveling the world. What on earth had she been thinking?

"Just..." she sighs. "Please. I'll be here. Just tell me if it appears, soon, preferably - I've got to be at the airport by three."

He raises his eyebrows, and Clara has a sinking feeling as he points at the large clock to her left.

"Ma'am," says the clerk, (if she gets called Ma'am ever again, she'll castrate someone), "it's three fifteen."

Halfway around the world, three breakups, two apartments, and a lost job later, Clara Oswald thinks that nothing has changed at all.

_____

 

This is the first time they meet:

She crashes into him while she's running through the airport, sending the contents of her open bag and the pile of papers he holds flying. They both drop to the ground, scrambling to pick up the scattered belongings.

"Sorry, sorry-"

"My fault."

His voice catches her off guard - no American accent. Some polite part of her manages to make conversation. "You're not from here. Not," she hastens to clarify, " _here_ here, on the floor. New York here." The corners of his lips twitch, like he's holding back a laugh. Clara slumps backward and sighs. "And you knew what I meant." He meets her eyes tentatively, and she can't help but smile. They both laugh.

"Yes to both, I think. And you're not from here either." He picks up a ballpoint pen from the items still scattered around them and hands it to her.

"Just visiting." She confirms, capping the pen and putting it back into her bag. "And you? On holiday?"

He drops her gaze. "Funeral, actually."

"Oh god," Clara says, "I'm sorry. This is exactly what you don't need."

"It's alright." He makes a pitiful attempt at a smile, and for the first time, Clara notices the bags under his eyes and ragged shirt, then the patched blue bag thrown over his shoulders. It looks as though he's had even more of a miserable time in New York than she has.

"It's not alright," she guesses gently.

"No," he concedes. "No, not really."

Their eyes meet, and Clara feels a sudden surge of protectiveness for this odd-looking stranger. He has lost before, she thinks. This isn't new for him. Upon further thought, though, it isn't really something you can get used to, loss.

From behind the nearest counter, a flight attendant coughs pointedly. This is what makes Clara realize that they are still on the floor.

"I'm going to miss my flight. I should go," she says, and he blinks as though he's forgotten where they are.

The man scrambles to his feet in a flurry of limbs, extending a hand to help her stand. They both hasten to pick up the still-scattered items. She catches a glimpse of the signature at the bottom of his papers - 'Doctor' followed by something illegible - before handing it back to him.

He nods gratefully. "Good luck catching your flight."

"Good luck-" she doesn't quite know what to say now. "-Er... not going to any more funerals." Nice one, Clara.

Somehow, he doesn't look offended, instead staring at her with a kind of bemused curiosity that makes him look especially young. "I'll do my best."

(she sort of wants to hold his hand, but he's a stranger in an airport so instead she shoulders her bag and takes a step back)

"Bye." She says.

He waves somewhat pathetically. "Bye."

They smile politely and then they're gone. Well, he's gone. She's still as here as she was before. Which probably isn't saying much.

_Doctor_ , Clara thinks as she rushes to the gate.  _Doctor who?_

(As luck would have it, she loses both her ring and her boarding pass some time in the next ten minutes. She doesn't miss the flight, though, so at least there's that.)

_____

 

Very quickly, Clara realizes that seeing the world, even just a hundred and one parts of it, will take longer than she'd expected. She starts small, with cherry blossoms in Washington. (Place Number 53) She doesn't think she's ever felt further from home, but also thinks that her mother would have loved these bright pink flowers floating lazily through the sky.

Then she thinks of friendly strangers in airports and running away.

So Clara decides to be hopeful.

_____

 

She sees him again.

This time it's the middle of summer and she's in line, waiting to go through security. Time is moving especially slowly, Clara's looking listlessly around the rows of queues, and when she sees him she does a double take. The Doctor does too, and opens his mouth to speak before he realizes very visibly that she probably won't hear him from across the room. Then it's his turn to go through the metal detector, so he turns away. He's still carrying that hideous blue bag, which looks to be in even worse condition, as through such a thing were possible. He passes through the machine without incident, and then he stops and waits for her.

(time goes even more slowly after that)

When Clara finally approaches the Doctor, declared by the security officers not to be a threat, he smiles with a familiarity that far exceeds five minutes on the floor of an airport. He looks at her with an unfiltered happiness, like she's someone he's lost and found.

"I've been wondering," he says, as though picking up in the middle of a conversation, "what's your name?"

"Clara," she says.

"Nice name."

He looks infinitely better than he did the first time they met, in a fresh shirt and jaunty bow tie. (Clara chooses to ignore the blue bag.) She can't presume to know the reason for this change, but guesses that it has something to do with the change of scenery.

Which is to say: He looks _happy_ , pure and simple. He strikes her as the sort to be happy, in spite of ( _because of?)_ whatever tribulations he's faced. 

The Doctor coughs, bringing Clara back to attention. "You didn't ask my name. People normally do, when meeting. Or re-meeting."

Clara averts her gaze, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I've sort of been referring to you as just... Doctor. The Doctor."

She realizes her mistake too late.

He grins teasingly, but his cheeks darken with a blush. "Does that happen often? You referring to me?"

She's never been one to let someone get the upper hand, so Clara rises slightly on her toes so she's almost able to look at him eye to eye. "Don't flatter yourself." For a few moments, they're almost nose to nose, then he gulps, and steps back.

_Score one for Clara,_ she thinks triumphantly. 

"I almost forgot," he says, and starts rummaging through his pockets. "I have your ring. Not on purpose, I think I must've picked it up with my things - sorry, could you-?" He holds out his bag and she takes it so he can dig more easily through his seemingly endless pockets. He pulls out a few pennies, a pebble, and a jammy dodger, then hands those to her as well.

"Do I want to know why you've got these things in your coat pocket?" Clara asks, maneuvering to balance the growing stack of items in her arms.

He grins, making a great show of pulling out the ring that she'd thought she'd lost in New York. Then, as if he's only just remembering to answer her: "I collect things, sort of. Reminders."

"Of?"

"Places. People."

He takes back his frankly odd collection of items, shoving them absently into his pockets before holding out his hand with the ring in the centre of his palm.

"Thank you," says Clara, and perhaps he can read the genuine sincerity in her voice, because the Doctor stays silent. She slips the ring back on her finger, and it feels as though it was never gone. "I'd given up on getting this back."

"Is it very important to you, then?"

She nods. "One of the most important things I own. My mum..." She trails off, twisting the simple band absently.

"Well," says the Doctor, "in my experience, y'know, lost things have a tendency to find their way home."

(she believes him)

He smiles down at her with a gentleness that surprises her, and she comes to her senses. "Thank you," she says again, needlessly.

"Thank you," he says, even more needlessly; and now's probably when she should leave (because that's what strangers in airports do, after all).

“There's something I've been meaning to ask you,” he says. And Clara raises an eyebrow. He ventures a small smile. "Tea?”

She makes a conscious effort not to appear too eager. "I can do that," she says, and he offers his arm. She takes it, after a moment.

_Oswald for the win._

_____

 

Seated across from the Doctor in the heinously overpriced coffee kiosk, Clara plays with the string of her tea bag and looks at him curiously. "What sort of doctor are you, exactly? What do you specialize in?"

He waves a hand, as if such minor details don't interest him. "Oh, this and that. Pediatrics. Geriatrics. Worked a while with Doctors Without Borders, delivered a baby on a rowboat in Malaysia, once-" He shudders, as if remembering. "-Helped establish a village in the Himalayas, and of course I perform the occasional brain surgery."

Clara almost chokes on her tea. "Brain surgery?"

He shrugs. "I dabble."

"That's encouraging."

He laughs almost bashfully, and it sort of looks like he wants to dive into his hot chocolate. As it is, he takes a large gulp and winds up with a dollop of whipped cream on the tip of his nose. Clara giggles, and passes him a napkin.

"What about you?" Asks the Doctor. "What do you do?"

"I am - or, sorry, I _was_ an English teacher. Classical literature, mostly." She corrects herself, still not quite used to her new status or, rather, lack thereof. "I'm not really anything, anymore."

The Doctor frowns playfully. "Once an English teacher, always an English teacher." He hesitates, then looks at her questioningly. "What happened?"

He doesn't seem to have any qualms about asking personal questions, as if he meets up and exchanges life stories with strangers on a regular basis. It's sort of endearing, so Clara takes a sip of tea and holds the mug with both hands.

"Within three weeks, my position at work was deemed 'unnecessary', my boyfriend broke up with me, and I was evicted from my apartment."

He winces sympathetically. "Do I want to know how that happened?"

Clara braces herself. "I may have caused a very, very minor fire while attempting to make a souffle."

To his credit, he tries to hard not to laugh that his face goes a brilliant red.

Clara sighs. "Go on," she says, "I'm used to it."

The Doctor bursts out laughing. "I don't know what I expected," he says, between guffaws, "but that definitely wasn't it." He dissolves into a whole new fit of giggles, and Clara can't help but join in.

"A souffle, though, really?"

"Shut up!" Clara laughs, rolling her eyes. "I'll have you know that the firefighters enjoyed it immensely. Landlord, not so much, but you know..."

Still laughing, their eyes meet, and Clara finds herself smiling into silence. The rest of the airport races on around them, and the Doctor stares at her contentedly.

"I like you," he announces with no trace of pretention.

(for a reason that Clara can't quite concern, she feels a lump in her throat, like she wants to cry)

(happy tears, probably)

"I should hope so," she says lightly. "Otherwise you've bought me this drink for nothing."

"There goes my hotel budget," teases the Doctor. Clara looks across the table at him, and it feels like lots of things aren't being said but before they can be, a tinny voice sounds over the P.A. system, calling passengers to their gates.

"That's my flight," says Clara, and is surprised to feel regretful.

"Right," says the Doctor, gulping down the remainder of his hot chocolate and scrambling to his feet. "Right, of course. Got a pen?"

Clara rummages through her carry-on, producing an engraved pen that she thinks she took from a hotel room in Ottawa. The Doctor accepts it gratefully, and as Clara gathers her things, he scrawls down a phone number on the back of a napkin.

"If you're in Greece," he says, "and you'd like to meet, or drink tea; or if you aren't in Greece and would like to spend some money on a long distance phone call..."

"Thank you," Clara says, folding the napkin into the front pocket of her bag and wondering if the author of  _101 Places to See_ has ever visited Greece. “For the tea, I mean.” 

“Of course.”

She hasn't finished her tea, but the announcement sounds again and she figures that the odds of getting another flight this late are probably not good so she really does have to leave, this time, in a dreadful rush, too.

Which is to say: She forgets her pen.

_____

 

When he calls her back, she's at the front of the line, getting her passport stamped by a bored-looking official.

"Clara-"

She looks over her shoulder, and from behind the roped off area, the Doctor shifts awkwardly.

"What are the odds I'll see you again?"

She attempts a nonchalant shrug. "Million to one, probably."

For some odd reason, his smile grows. "Not impossible then."

(she supposes that, if you've heard the word impossible too many times, outrageously improbable isn't that bad)

"No," says Clara, slowly, "I don't suppose it is."

_____

 

There is a sort of irony in the air when Clara visits the so-called City of Love on her own. She wanders through Paris (Place Number 17) and eats probably too many croissants and then visits famous museums and then, okay, a few more croissants and other assorted pastries are involved too. She contemplates ascending the Eiffel Tower, but the lineups are just massive, so she sits at the base of the structure and stares at the shadows cast by the criss-crossing beams.

City of Love. Ha.

(Clara wonders about the probability of coincidence)

_____

 

Two days later, she gets on the plane and is strangely not-surprised to see him peering out the window in the seat beside her.

_____

 

The first thing he says doesn't make any sense. It feels like she should have expected this.

"Your pen."

Clara slides into her seat. "My what?"

"Your pen, from the airport. I saved it for you. Did you know it's from a hotel in-"

"Ottawa." She finishes. "I remember now."

He passes her the pen, and Clara looks at him questioningly. "Just happened to be carrying this around, then?"

"Figured we'd bump into each other again at some point."

"Figured?"

"Maybe hoped." He feigns a casual tone, and meets her eyes with a grin. For a moment, neither speaks, and they don't break eye contact.

"Well," says Clara slowly, "here I am."

The Doctor nods playfully. "I'm starting to think you're doing this on purpose." Clara sticks her tongue out and he pulls a face in return. She hiccoughs herself into something resembling seriousness.

"And you?” she asks lightly, “Why are you always traveling alone?"

"All of my friends are dead."

"Very funny."

He smiles mirthlessly. "Really. Most people I know die."

(funny - she'd thought, the very first time she'd met him, that he'd lost someone before)

(she hadn't exactly imagined that it would be quite so many someones)

"Bloomin' hell," says Clara, looking at him sideways, "I'm starting to reconsider taking the same flight as you."

He laughs. It sort of sounds like he means it.

It's quiet for a while, and Clara squeezes her eyes shut and clings to the arm rest as the plane shudders off the ground. She can feel him staring at her questioningly.

"I don't like take-off," she says by way of explanation.

"No," says the Doctor, "not many people do." Neither speaks, then he does. "I lied," he says suddenly.

She doesn't open her eyes. "Oh?"

"Not all of them are dead. One moved to Norway. On the beach."

Clara feels like this is one of those moments where someone needs someone else to hold on to, so she decides to be someone and takes his hand.

He doesn't pull away.

Over the course of the nine hour flight, these things happen:

They watch a movie on the little screens in front of them. It's supposed to play at the same time, but Clara's video lags so that she sees the events a second after him. Every so often, he laughs, and in the moment before she gets the joke, it's like he's laughing for no reason other than to be happy. It's nice.

She talks about how she visited the air and space museum and followed a school group so that she could hear the guide talk about the future of space travel because she's kind of always been interested in the stars. He agrees wholeheartedly.

He talks about how he visited Pompeii and saw where someone was burned away into nothing in the space of a second. (all they leave behind is the space where they once were)

(She agrees wholeheartedly.)

Three hours in, the flight attendant brings them drinks and they commiserate about the horrors of poorly made tea over plastic cups of said tea.

While Clara is ruffling through her carry-on, he catches sight of a book and his hand hovers over the spine hesitantly.

"May I?"

She nods, and he pulls out the book, flipping through the pages like just being in the presence of the story makes him happy.

"You like _The Great Gatsby_?"

"Never read it, actually." She must look confused, because the Doctor explains, "I've heard about it my whole life, how great it is. I don't want to read it and ruin it."

"But... if you never read it, how do you know it's really great?"

He shrugs. "Not very many things are agreed to be great by almost everyone. I shouldn't like to ruin one of the few things that is."

Clara shakes her head insistently. "What if you wouldn't ruin it, though? What if it's not something that can be lost that easily?"

"Everything can be lost that easily." He responds automatically, and all at once, it's back, that invisible weight that hovers over him sure as a raincloud. Clara averts her eyes.

The Doctor looks at her, abashed. "I've made you sad."

"You haven't." And she isn't sure why but it feels important that he knows this. "I'm not sad."

"No," he says, and sounds pleasantly surprised, "I'm not either."

(and if he was under a raincloud before it's like the sun's come out)

"Take it," says Clara, on a whim.

"Take...your tea?"

She hadn't realized that she was still holding the half-empty cup.

"No, genius," she chastises gently, "the book."

He looks dumbfounded. "But - but it's yours."

"And now I'm lending it to you. It's like you said: Once an English teacher, always an English teacher." She leans forward mischievously. "I don't think I can associate with someone who hasn't read  _Gatsby._ "

He laughs, but accepts the book when she holds it out to him.

She tells her students, when teaching them formal essay writing, that it's important to always use present tense when talking about the events of a story, because it has existed, it exists, and it will exist long after they've forgotten it on a shelf.

Difficult to lose, that. Even for him.

It occurs to her that it is beginning to look like a pattern.

Which is to say: Every time they part, he takes another piece of her with him.

(Which is to say-)

_____

 

"It's strange," says Clara, after the plane has landed. "You feel so-"

"Familiar." Adds the Doctor eagerly. "I know! But we've never met before, I'd remember-"

"So how do I know you so well?" She finishes, and looks up at him thoughtfully. "University?"

"Childhood friends?"

"Past life?"

"Parallel universe?"

They've arrived at the gate. His connecting flight leaves in an hour, and her tour guide calls the group from near the baggage claim. They lock eyes for one long second, and she has to have known him from somewhere because it feels like they're supposed to be here, together.

Before she can say something exceptionally stupid, Clara holds out her hand to shake. "'Til next time, Doctor Smith."

He shakes her hand with a small bow. "Here's hoping history repeats itself."

"Here's hoping," Clara echoes, and watches him walk away.

_____

 

This is Place Number 61: She visits the pyramids in Egypt, and it strikes her as incredible that these impossible things are still here a million lifetimes after their builders; keeping a constant, silent vigil over whatever long-dead king they're supposed to protect.

The wind whips through her hair and Clara feels insignificant and wondrous.

_____

 

The last time they find each other, her flight has been delayed and when she looks out the window all Clara can see is snow.

"Clara!" She whips her head around and sees an arm waving spastically from behind a crowd of old ladies. She stands on her toes, peering over the permed grey heads to see who's calling her so enthusiastically.

And she has never been one to believe in coincidence (but maybe she hopes for it, now)

Clara almost doubles over laughing as he elbows his way to her, ignoring the furious gazes of travel-weary grandmothers, and meets his eyes. "It's you."

He is smiling from ear to ear. "It's you."

To be honest, they probably spend a few seconds too long staring at each other like idiots.

"Where are you-" "Were you-"

They both stop, laughing almost shyly. It's quiet. Clara tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, rocking slightly on her heels. The Doctor looks away, then back at her, like he's working up the nerve to say something crazy.

"Run away with me."

Okay, that's just a tad crazier than she'd expected.

"You're insane," says Clara.

"Probably." He shrugs, and she gets the impression that he hears that a lot. "Tea?" He asks, gesturing to a crowded cafe beside them.

Clara stares at him, stunned, then manages to speak. "That," she says, "I can do."

All of the seats in the cafe are taken by passengers whose flights were canceled, so they take their drinks to go and stroll through the maze of stranded travelers.

"So," says the Doctor, conversationally, "how was Christmas?"

She gives him a skeptical look. "I don't understand."

"Rather a simple question, unless you don't celebr-"

"I don't understand," pushes Clara, "how you can ask someone you barely know to run away with you, like it's nothing."

He takes a sip of his tea. "It's not nothing."

"Double negative." She says automatically, and he cracks a smile.

"Still an English teacher. See? I know that."

Clara stares up at him incredulously, walking at a brisk pace to keep up with his significantly longer strides. "That doesn't mean that you know me! Real life isn't a Jane Austen novel, people don't just ask people to run away with them!"

She's caught his attention - he looks up from his cup. "Why not?"

"Because," Clara stammers, "they- they just don't!"

He purses his lips thoughtfully. "Strange," he muses, with a slightly mischievous glance down to her, "I could have sworn that I just did."

Clara stops walking, completely baffled. She stares after him for a long moment, and thinks about running away. She looks out the nearest window- The snow is still falling, and the airport is getting more and more crowded, and she thinks she might lose him in the mob were it not for that positively _horrid_ blue backpack. 

And, not entirely sure why, she hurries to catch up to him.

He's managed to locate two empty chairs, and doesn't look surprised when Clara joins him.

"I've finished  _The Great Gatsby_ ," he says, like that's the perfectly natural place for the conversation to go, rummaging through his bag before handing it to her. She accepts the paperback, sitting cross-legged in the chair next to him.

"Well?"

"Well," he sighs, "it lied."

Clara raises an eyebrow.

"The back of the book said it was a love story," he explains.

"You don't think it was?"

"It was obsession," says the Doctor, "and idealism and loneliness and nostalgia."

She taps the cover protectively. "You didn't like it, then."

"I loved it."

(if he'd asked her to run away with him, at that precise moment, Clara thinks she would have said yes, probably.)

(the moment passes, and she tells herself that she's come to her senses.)

Their gazes lock, and they look at each other for too long.

_____

 

Five hours and three seat changes later, their flights are still delayed and he asks her again.

"It's not that simple," says Clara.

"Isn't it?" He leans forward, eager. "I'm happier when I'm with you than when I'm without you. I think you're happy with me, as well. We both like traveling, we both like each other, why not combine the two?"

Clara laughs in disbelief. "You talk as if, just because two people enjoy each other's company, they can run off and see the world. There's no fate, no cosmic superpower rooting for us. It's not that easy!"

"Maybe it is," he says, "what is there to leave behind that we haven't already left? What's to stop you from building a snowman in the airport parking lot? What's to stop me," he leaps up, standing on the chair, "from standing here and asking you, in front of everybody, to run away with me again and again?"

Clara reddens under the gazes of the people surrounding them. He's completely insane. "I- Someone. Something. Anything!" She gets to her feet, staring at him, still up on the chair. "Besides," she challenges, "how do you know I want to run away with you, in the first place?"

He doesn't fall for it. "Do you?"

"Not the point," Clara hedges, because she doesn't think she's up to a blatant lie. "I have a plan, I scheduled this trip to follow my book and I can't just walk away from it with some Doctor just because he makes me _happy!"_

"So don't walk away," he says, "run." He jumps down from the chair, limbs flailing madly.

Clara struggles to find reasons why this is an incredibly  _bad_ idea. 

"You don't know a thing about me," she says, pulling him down the row of chairs. "What if I'm a terrible person and you just haven't realized yet? I could be anything, and you'd have no idea because you don't know me!"

"You love to read," says the Doctor, "but not as much as you love choosing a book because then you can look forward to what you haven't read yet. You never traveled a day in your life until almost a year ago, when you left home and haven't looked back since. You enjoy strong tea, dislike airplane peanuts, and you try to be more like your mother even though you're perfectly fine as you are."

They've gotten quite loud, at this point; people are staring.

"I may not know everything about you," he says, "but I know enough to know that I want to know more."

(she doesn't think she's ready to think about what this means; and she certainly isn't ready to respond, so Clara does what he said: she runs)

_____

 

The scary thing is that she had almost said yes.

When he'd first asked her, when she'd first heard the words "run away with me", her thought hadn't been 'oh shit' or 'no way' but, rather, 'about time'. This is itself is extremely puzzling because, pre-mid-life-crisis aside, Clara Oswald does not do crazy things, certainly not involving bow tie-wearing men in airports.

(despite herself, she can imagine it. imagine him.)

She sighs, leaning her head against the door of the bathroom stall she's barricaded herself in. God, it's like she's a teenager again, hiding in the Ladies from something she's not ready to deal with.

The scary thing is that she had almost said yes.

And she is so,  _so_ not ready to deal with this. 

With a small sniffle, Clara reaches into her purse, trying to find a tissue to dab at her eyes. Digging through the bag, she finds something unfamiliar, and remembers the book. It's in pristine condition, she notices, as she pulls it out and stares at the cover.

One of the things that's always infuriated her about Gatsby and Daisy is that, love story or not, change is always within their grasps. So many choices that they don't make or make wrongly.

Without really paying attention to what she's doing, Clara flips through the pages of the book. Something falls out from between the last two. She bends to pick it up without really noticing what it is, then, upon seeing it, straightens too quickly and bangs her head on the door. She drops to her knees on the tiled floor, not believing her eyes.

It can't be. Completely impossible - no, more than impossible.

And yet...

Slowly, reverently, Clara holds on to the leaf that helped her parents meet, the leaf that her mother had treasured more than anything.

The leaf that had vanished in New York, almost a year ago.

(he'd been in New York, a year ago, at the same time as her. was it possible...)

"It can't be," says Clara out loud, but picks up the leaf and sees the little tear in the bottom right corner and the veins that she could draw from memory and knows that, somehow, it can.

She's always laughed at the concept of destiny, at the idea of something being predetermined.

"Of all the leafs," she breathes, "and all the people in all the cities in all the world, it had to be him."

Then she realizes: This makes her happy.

It had to be him.

_____

 

"You travel because you're scared to stop," says Clara, and he meets her eyes from across the bustling room like he's not quite sure if he heard her right.

She takes a step closer, speaking up so that he can hear her from where he stands. "You," she continues, gaining confidence with each word, "are a doctor, not just because of your job but because of who you are and who you want to be. You take whipped cream on your hot chocolate, carry the same blue bag everywhere you go, and you have lost enough to know when you've found something good - no, something great."

Somewhere in the midst of her words, he's started smiling. "Even though you don't believe in fate?"

Clara thinks of the leaf in her bag, and how, after a hundred and one places to see, it's managed to find its way back home; just not the way she'd expected. She is beginning to realize that, more often than not, the things she expects tend not to happen.

She nods, without dropping his gaze. "Especially then."

He takes a step toward her. "You burn souffles."

"You collect things."

"You hate bad grammar."

"You wear strange bowties."

"You-" "You-"

They both laugh, shyly (of all things, to be shy now), and Clara looks up at him with a smile that she tries and fails to tame.

"I want to know more," she says, and it occurs to her that something has changed. She looks upward, and the Doctor follows her gaze to the large skylight.

"Oh look," he says, "it's stopped snowing."

The drops are audible, even through the din of the crowded terminal, beating out a steady rhythm on the glass.

(and look at that, somehow she's made her way a lot closer to him)

(funny how that works)

He leans down so that they're almost eye to eye, foreheads pressed together. "Come away with me."

"Okay," says Clara, then laughs because she can't quite believe what she's saying. "Okay," she repeats, and meets his eyes with another nervous giggle. (She hasn't had many Important Moments in her life. She thinks that this is one of them.)

She's suddenly aware of how quiet it is, and the Doctor must realize this too because he draws back slightly to look at the crowd that has parted around them.

A primly dressed flight attendant smiles gently. "Now's normally the part where you kiss."

The Doctor blushes furiously, stammering an excuse that he doesn't get to finish because Clara thinks - screw it - and clutches his collar, pulling him down so she can press her lips to his.

Somewhere in the background, the other stranded vacationers cheer. Clara kind of feels like joining them, because this is, quite frankly, the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to her in about forever and, okay, it's a pretty awesome kiss.

( _Yes,_ Clara decides.  _Definitely an Important Moment.)_

_____

 

This time, they don't have to find each other.

Clara stands next to the Doctor, who looks away from the list of outgoing flights and laces his fingers with hers.

"Where to?" He asks.

Clara shrugs. "Lake district?"

"Oh," he says with an excited smile, "I hear they have lovely scones."

Which is to say: It is not a happy ending.

Clara thinks that a happy beginning might be even better.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. 6k.


End file.
